A/N:
This story was rejected from SNW 9. I'm putting it here because
it's got T'Pol in it, and I've only ever written for this
fandom. Hopefully, no one will take exception.

This
is for all female Star Trek fans, because most of the time, we
never get what we want on the show.

Commander
Uhura eased herself into the chair with a groan. Though her rump was
well-padded in its own right these days, she appreciated the extra
upholstery the chair provided. With her legs safely ensconced
beneath the table, she slipped off the regulation-issue Starfleet
women's shoes. Freedom from the tight, highly-arched footwear made
her feet feel as if they were expanding like balloons. Uhura sighed
in relief and then cast a brief, baleful glare at the other bar
patrons, most of whom were male. She'd bet a dozen bars of latinum
that none of them had sore feet because they'd spent the day
in uncomfortable shoes. Even in these enlightened times, women
seemed condemned to suffer the vagaries of style.

Her
thoughts traveled back to the days on the Enterprise, when her
rump hadn't been so well-padded. Fashion had been her
friend, then. She hadn't minded those ridiculously retro Starfleet
uniforms a bit, as she filled them out quite well, if she did say so
herself. And back then, she could work a full shift on the bridge in
shoes that made her current boots look like therapeutic footwear!
Where had the time gone?

"Hey,
girl." A friendly greeting drew her from her reverie. Ordinarily,
the by-the-book commander wouldn't suffer such a diminutive from
anyone, on duty or off. But considering the woman addressing her was
her elder by several centuries, she didn't take exception.

"Hey,
Guinan. How're things?"

The
El-Aurian settled herself into one of the many available seats at the
table, deftly balancing a tray containing a veritable cornucopia of
bottles and glassware. "Oh, you know. Pouring drinks, listening.
The usual."

The
commander frowned, jealous of her friend's serenity. "You're
standing on the job almost all day, Guinan. Don't your feet hurt?"

"Hell,
no. I'm the queen of sensible shoes." Guinan poured a slug of
something into an iced tumbler and handed it to the human.

"How
do you get away with dressing the way you do?"

"Get
a couple of centuries under your belt, and you can pretty much do
what you want."

Uhura
scowled. "I feel a couple of centuries old. Does that
count?"

The
El-Aurian chuckled. "If it were up to me, Nyota, you could wear
whatever you wanted. You should just be grateful that you never had
to wear—"

"Forgive
my tardiness. I became engrossed in an essay on dark matter and lost
track of time." A diminutive Vulcan, dressed in the traditional
robes of her people, had approached their table undetected.

"Hey,
T'Pol," Guinan greeted her. "Pull up a seat. Uhura and I were
just discussing the illogical nature of female attire."

"Speaking
of which," Uhura commented, scrutinizing the Vulcan as she sat
down, "Catsuit at the cleaners?"

"That
piece of apparel currently resides in my closet, and has done so for
quite some time. I have not worn it since my posting on the NX-01."
T'Pol's brow furrowed for a slight moment, the only sign of
perturbation. "I sometimes suspect that an unauthorized mind meld
led me to make inappropriate clothing choices while stationed on
Enterprise."

"I
have often had similar suspicions regarding my own attire while on
Voyager," a sultry voice replied to the Vulcan's
statement. The women at the table looked up at the two newcomers.

"Hi,
Seven. Hi, Kathy," Uhura greeted both the former Borg drone and
the Starfleet Admiral behind her. "Right on time."

"Actually,
they are 3 minutes and 47 seconds late," T'Pol corrected.

"My
chronometer indicates that our tardiness is only 3 minutes and 39
seconds," Seven of Nine countered, seating herself. The Vulcan
inclined her head politely, conceding the point. "I believe,"
the Borg-woman went on, "that we were discussing surreptitious and
unauthorized mental influence resulting in ill-advised clothing
choices."

"Correct,"
T'Pol acknowledged. "While it may seem far-fetched, there is no
other logical explanation for clothing myself in skintight material
that offered little or no warmth on a human vessel, where the ambient
temperature was well below that considered acceptable to Vulcans."

Before
Seven of Nine could respond, Kathryn Janeway broke in. "Seven, do
you honestly think I'd allow something like that to happen on my
ship?" she demanded, both amused and insulted at the trend of the
conversation.\

"Of
course not, Admiral," Seven conceded. "However, like Commander
T'Pol, I can find no other rational reason for some of my clothing
selections. According to the doctor, my attire, while formfitting,
was necessary to help regenerate skin damaged by Borg technology."
The blond woman paused, before going on pensively. "This rationale
does not, however, explain the need for stiletto-heeled footwear."

The
other women nodded knowingly in both sympathy and agreement, then
took advantage of the break in conversation to sip their various
drinks. The silence was broken by the arrival of a Bajoran woman.

"Wow,
who died?" she asked, plopping herself down without ceremony on an
empty chair.

"Seven's
feet," Uhura responded, grinning at the look of confusion that
greeted her words.

"Glad
you could make it, Kira. We were just talking about the...odd...
clothing choices made by females of many species," Guinan informed
the Bajoran with mock solemnity.

"I
always figured it was a human custom," Colonel Kira Nerys
commented, reaching for the drink that Guinan had poured for her.
"Dax and I certainly never wore anything so outlandish. Except, of
course, in those ridiculous holosuite programs of hers. And I'm
pretty sure they were human, as well."

"Who
was human?" inquired a teal-uniformed commander, whose genetic
makeup happened to be half-Betazoid and half the aforementioned
species.

"The
sadistic inventor of FM pumps," Uhura deadpanned, pushing a chair
out with one of her de-shoed feet. "Plant yourself, Deanna, and
have a drink!"

"Oh,
come on, now," laughed the counselor as she followed Uhura's
instructions. "A nice pair of heels can make or break an outfit!"

"Nobody's
saying a nice pair of shoes is a bad thing, especially when
you're playing dress-up," Janeway said. "But, Deanna, all the
time?" she asked, gesturing to the four-inch pumps on
Seven's feet.

The
Betazoid glanced at the torturous footwear in question and sighed.
"True enough," she said. "Being able to wear a uniform and
sensible shoes is so much more comfortable when you're on duty.
Not to mention more professional!" The rest of the table fell
silent and stared.

"What?"
Troi demanded defensively. "Just because I wore a catsuit for a
few years, suddenly I'm unprofessional?"

"Your
statement did seem slightly...incongruous, considering your wardrobe
the first six years you were stationed on the NC-1701-D," T'Pol
commented.

Troi
snorted. "Look who's talking! Your outfit got you dubbed 'the
Vulcan Vixen of the NX-01!'" Although T'Pol's nostrils
flared slightly at the jibe, there was no other reaction from the
Vulcan, although the rest of the table exploded in laughter.

"We
were just discussing that before you got here," Guinan responded
quickly, in order to soothe any potential ruffled feathers. "T'Pol
and Seven believe their minds may have been tampered with, resulting
in their...ah...anomalous wardrobes."

"Makes
sense to me," said Kira, after a healthy swig of ale. "When's
the last time you saw a Vulcan in anything but robes or
Starfleet-issue? Logic certainly didn't dictate what T'Pol wore
on the NX-01!"

Uhura
nodded her agreement. "And the Borg aren't exactly known for
pimping their females out like Orion slave girls!"

"Exactly,"
Seven concurred. "Such attire is not conducive to assimilation."

"There
certainly is a great deal of precedent to support your theory," the
Betazoid counselor said thoughtfully, after the chuckling elicited by
the Borg woman's statement had subsided. "Females have been
subject to mind-meddling throughout Starfleet history." Her glance
around the table met looks of commiseration. "Is there anyone here
whose mind wasn't influenced by alien phenomena during the
course of their service?"

Only
Guinan raised her hand in response to the question. Then she
reconsidered, and put it down again. "To be fair," the El-Aurian
mused after a moment of silence, "plenty of males have had their
minds meddled with, too."

"True.
But in most cases, it did not result in their becoming sexually
aggressive," T'Pol countered.

"Mmm-hmmmm,"
Troi agreed. "Males under the influence of mind-meddling seem far
less likely to take off their clothes and jump on the nearest
sentient life form."

"While
males not under the influence of mind-meddling are almost
certain to jump on the nearest sentient lifeform!" Uhura
added drolly.

The
table exploded in laughter. Kira pounded her drink in appreciation
of the joke. "Maybe that only pertains to ships captained by James
T. Kirk," she gasped, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.

T'Pol,
unaffected by the humor around her, strove to apply the scientific
method to the comments of her comrades. "I have seen no evidence
to support your theory. The crew of Enterprise certainly did
not follow the stereotype of the overly sexual human male."

"Yes,
let's not make sweeping generalizations!" chided Guinan, who was
chuckling despite her words. "Picard was very
discriminating in that arena!"

"Although
I hear Riker more than made up for his captain's reticence,"
Janeway commented slyly, casting her eyes in Troi's direction.

The
Betazoid frowned and put her hand to her brow, suggesting intense
mental effort. "Admiral! I'm...I'm sensing...cattiness!"
she responded.

Another
eruption of laughter shook the table. Even T'Pol cocked an
appreciative eyebrow. Eventually, the humor played itself out,
whereupon Guinan refilled everyone's glass. The El-Aurian took the
opportunity to restart the conversation while her friends were
assuaging their thirst.

"So,
Deanna," she began. "We always had a running bet on the
Enterprise: the more cleavage you showed, the more empathic
you were."

More
laughter greeted Guinan's challenge, and the women turned their
eyes to see how the Betazoid would respond.

"Hmmmm...that's
a tough one," Deanna hemmed. "A lot of times it depended on the
situation. If the aliens were within viewing distance of
my...ah...assets, then it was usually pretty easy to get an idea of
what they were feeling."

Her
deadpan statement resulted in a spit-take on the part of Commander
Uhura. Choking on bourbon and laughter, the older woman blurted,
"That was never in the Communications Officer Handbook!"

"Oh,
come on, Nyota. Don't tell me you never used those old miniskirt
uniforms to distract the odd Klingon or Romulan!" Kathryn chided.

Uhura
drew herself up proudly, swaying only a tiny bit. "I most
certainly did not!" she replied haughtily. "I always
conducted myself as a professional." She thumped the table with
her now-empty glass. "A professional!" she repeated, daring the
others to contradict her.

"Of
course we are all professionals," Seven droned. "But
circumstances have often conspired to bring that fact into question."

"What
do you mean?" Kira was further baffled by the sudden looks of
resignation she saw darkening the faces of her friends.

"Perhaps
your situation is different, as you have never felt compelled to wear
four-inch heels while on duty," Seven explained.

"Or
a catsuit," Troi added. T'Pol nodded in agreement with the
Betazoid's addendum.

"You
were never the weak, helpless damsel that needed to be saved,"
Uhura told the Bajoran.

"Nor
did you go into heat and make amorous advances on the Chief Medical
Officer," the Vulcan said.

"Actually,"
Kira muttered. "That last one sounds familiar."

"Not
to mention the most important thing!" Uhura went on implacably.
"You got to kick tons of ass!"

"I
know!" whined Troi. "I don't think a day went by where
you didn't hand somebody's head right back to them."

"That's
true," Kira admitted. "I really lucked out when Ro Laren set a
precedent for ballbusting Bajoran women." She glanced around.
"But what about you, Kathryn? You and Seven got to kick some ass
every once in a while."

"Well,
I couldn't very well be captain and not kick some ass,"
Janeway growled. "It's almost a Starfleet prerequisite: 'Must
be prepared to kick ass.' But the sacrifices were enormous!"
Seven nodded solemnly, but the rest of the women looked bewildered.
Janeway attempted to explain. "Kicking ass was all well and good,
but we paid a heavy price!"

"What
do you mean?" Guinan asked, genuinely confused.

Janeway
scowled in disbelief, irritated that her friends should be so dense.
"You know: That lack of sex thing?" She glared at Kira. "You
got to kick ass and have sex on a fairly regular basis!
Unfortunately for Seven and I, on Voyager it was apparently
either/or!"

"What
about Belanna Torres?" asked T'Pol. "She participated in both
activities, if I am not mistaken."

"Belanna
only had sex with her husband," Janeway all but snarled. "And
she was a Klingon. I think they're like Bajorans. They get to do
it all! Seems like they have different rules for humans."

"There
may be some truth to your assertions," T'Pol conceded. "Even I
had a liaison with a male."

"Oooooh!
And he certainly is a hottie!" Deanna Troi was momentarily
distracted by the Vulcan's much-speculated-about relationship with
Commander Tucker. A territorial glare from T'Pol and a growl from
Janeway corralled the counselor's wayward imagination.

"Small
wonder that Admiral Janeway and I tried to make do with holodeck
programs," Seven said. "Although it was hardly an adequate
substitution, I think you will agree."

"Well,
they always talk about the loneliness of command..." ventured Uhura
tentatively.

"Loneliness,
yes. Celibacy, no!" Janeway snapped. "None of your
captains went without! Well, maybe Archer," she amended, nodding
at T'Pol. "Probably why he was always going from zero to cranky
at warp speed," she mused, before returning her attention to her
point. "But that still doesn't make up for being known
throughout Starfleet Command as the "'sexless spinster of the
Delta Quadrant!'" The Admiral glowered at her friends fiercely
before throwing back her scotch. Guinan reached over to refill the
glass without being asked.

The
uncomfortable silence lasted for only a few moments. Deanna Troi,
well-oiled with tequila, could not remain silent for longer than
that.

"I
still say that kicking a little ass would have been worth it!" the
Betazoid slurred. "Do you know how many times I got to kick
any ass? Well, do you?" she demanded pugnaciously.

Only
blank looks and head shakes greeted her challenging glare around the
table. She staggered to her feet and held up a finger.

"Only
one!" she snapped.

It
wasn't until the table had dissolved into laughter that Troi gazed
at her hand, befuddled—the last to notice that the digit she held
up was not her index finger.

Yet
another roar of laughter from the table full of women at the other
side of the tavern finally drew comment from the five Starfleet
captains who had been studiously ignoring their existence until that
moment.

"What
the hell do you think is so funny over there?" asked a heavyset,
bearded captain, somewhat apprehensively.

A
slender bald man clapped him on the shoulder bracingly. "Don't
worry, Will. I'm sure Deanna isn't telling them any conjugal
secrets!" His former first officer scowled at the
less-than-reassuring words. He felt slightly vindicated when his
former captain—despite the blasé comments—cast a nervous,
speculative glance in the direction of the women's table.

"Whatever
it is, they seem to be enjoying themselves!" a blue-jumpsuited
captain with a furrowed brow and beaky nose commented. Despite his
earnest, good-natured mien, he shifted uncomfortably as he
contemplated the table full of women.

"You
don't think they're talking about us, do you?" wondered
a beefy, toupeed captain, probably the most famous of their number.
He made no attempts to hide his suspicion and resentment of the
goings on at the other table. "And shouldn't Janeway be over
here with us? She's a good two ranks senior to all those
other girls."

The
fifth captain—also bald, but with a goatee and warm, coffee-colored
skin—made no comment at all. Perhaps as the Emissary of the
Prophets he had special wisdom. Perhaps commanding a space station
instead of a starship gave him a different perspective. Or maybe it
was just the simple fact that he was the only man at the table who
had experienced a happy, healthy marriage. Whatever the case, his
only response to the laughter at the other table and the comments at
his own was to gaze down at his drink, shake his head, and smile
wryly.

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.